


The Shadows Have Fallen And They Wait For The Day

by LaoisePotter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Mentions of Violence, The Betrayer Gods - Freeform, The Prime Deities, mentions of manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaoisePotter/pseuds/LaoisePotter
Summary: The gods pull the strings. The mortals must obey.





	The Shadows Have Fallen And They Wait For The Day

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 69 didn’t disprove any of my theories, so...

She was born in chains at the feet of her Lord and knelt before she knew how to stand.

“An angel sown by the seed of evil. You shall be my greatest champion.”

His voice only grew stronger as the years went on, triplicated, doubled, unyielding. But so did she. Time and words didn’t exist in this place; only blades and knowledge and irons and healing wounds, farther reaches, faster reflexes told her that she wasn’t standing still at the apex, at the death of creation. She was learning. She was training. She was earning her name as disciple, as warrior, as destruction.

“Arise, Yashael. The advent of oblivion is close at hand.”

The binds had long since sunk into her skin, scarless and white. He pressed a long finger from her lower lip to her chin, leaving a single black line in its wake.

“May all who hear your voice tremble at the rage of your Lord.”

The world above writhed with chaos. Their brethren were razing the old world to the ground as countless thralls cut down armies of heroes bearing the crests of order, gods that claimed the madness of the universe as their steadfast domain. Gods that would seek to quell that motion at the beginning and end of creation. Gods that were about to fall to their knees before her Lord.

She burst through the rift with a cry that shook the battlefield to silence. On bat-like wings, she rose like a dark moon in the sky, the iron chains that hung freely from her wrists rattling out a death toll as she opened her mouth and screamed. The final gate crashed open. Millions of worthless creatures following thousands of foot soldiers led by hundreds of chosen warriors echoed the cry of their Lord’s champion and raced into the carnage. She became a blur, a streak of destruction, an angel of devastation, bringing hundreds to their knees with a single cut of her blade or a lone crack of her whip-like irons. She paved the way for her Lord in blood and did not stop when he emerged, great and terrible and everything the gods of this world feared. Together they carved the earth and sky with fire and fury and forced their hand, forced their enemies to stop cowering behind champions and fight alongside them, as she fought by the side of her Lord. Great wounds brought calamitous change to the flow of energy that kept creation alive, but the mortals began to learn. The gods began to rally. The unstoppable angel in irons was wrenched away from her Lord as he was struck again, and again, and again by the might of the sun. He screamed in agony—a desperate order. She exploded out of the invisible grip that held her, fueled by his rage, and dove, breaking every law of space and time as she rocketed into the path of a blinding beam of light sent down from the heavens. 

The whole universe froze. All she knew was white, and heat, and pain. She didn’t hear her wings shredding at her sides. She didn’t see her Lord fall. She didn’t know he was collapsing inwards, inwards, inwards, leaving her behind. She didn’t feel her chains weaken. There was nothing there with her: nothing but pain, and heat, and white.

A single voice broke through the haze.

“ _Wait for the voice of your true Lord_.”

And Yashael sank into darkness.

She was born of love and dishonesty in isolation, a gem that pulsed with hope in a sea of unknowing indifference.

_“The blood of devils distilled, and by such a brilliant soul. She shall be my greatest project.”_

He watched her from beyond the weakening gate, carefully choosing the moments he made his presence known. A dash of paint here, a tumbled book there, a tap on the nose like thus, always to encourage her inherent chaos. She was good, and she was kind, and that didn’t bother him in the least. Nurturing mischief alongside natural charity meant trust, loyalty, and a purer kind of worship he hadn’t experienced in centuries. If he only spoke of balance, who’s to say if he actively neglected the goodness in her heart?

As her spirit grew stronger, so did his. He soon found himself able to grasp a single thread of energy and project his consciousness before the very person that brought him back to life. She was so elated to see him, to finally have something other than her own imagination as proof of his existence, that the light radiating from her faithful heart was enough to open two, three, four more pathways into the world. 

“You’ve given me new life, my dear. For that, I will always return to you.”

He began to search. Little beads of chaos drew him in, simple people with no god and a penchant for mischief and curiosity. Even if it was small, he took hold of that mote and nurtured it, encouraged it, rewarded them with little favors and magicks whenever they acted in his name. With each new disciple his ties to the world became stronger—not nearly enough to break the barrier, no, but enough to keep him lingering on the edge of awareness, perpetually one whisper away.

He kept his promise, manifesting himself every so often in her presence to reminder her how important she was to him. He would come to praise her or instruct her or simply to listen, and watch, and absorb the beautiful power she so freely gave through her love for him. It was more than he ever cultivated from fear. It made his exercise in patience worth it. He gave her a symbol, an archway with a winding path that stretched into the distance. She knew it would lead her to him. He knew it would lead him to freedom. He sent it to the far reaches of the world, into the hands of his other followers—she was the key, but a key does not turn itself. So he made a plan.

“My dear, I will be with you every step of the way. And when the sun freezes in the sky, we’ll finally be able to walk together.”

Even as she traveled alone, he could feel the strings of fate already tugging her forward. She would learn faster, work harder, foster relationships with people who weren’t his but he knew, he knew they had important parts to play in his ultimate rebirth. So, he watched. He waited. He had been patient for a millennia; what was just one more year?

She was born, and that was the whole infuriating problem.

“An unwanted child who has such a vital role in this world’s future. You just may become his greatest enemy.”

She fought it. Oh boy, did she fight it. She fought it every step of the way, even when she was supposed to listen. Even when she was supposed to learn. Even when she was exhausted, beaten, battered, broken on her cot, she still fought it. How could anyone expect her to believe that she was someone that important? She was dragged here as a favor, not because she was chosen. Screw the gods, even the people that _created_ her didn’t want her around. She wasn’t going to let anybody lay claim to her and her supposed destiny just because they pulled her away from that bullshit. She was still her own person. _She_ would decide what her life was meant to be.

But slowly, she began to understand. Slowly she figured out what they were really trying to teach her. Slowly, she began to realize what her part in the world actually meant to its future. Or rather, what it _could_ mean.

“None of us are _chosen_ here. You are a _choice_. You are a _chance_. You may be the best choice, but it’s up to you to make your life worth the chance we’re willing to take on you. The chance our _mistress_ is willing to take on you. Wipe that blood off your face and come at me again.”

Some days it was still too much, and she ran away. They always found her. Other days her mind was quiet, and she could tolerate the stillness of research. This enemy they spoke of was ancient, dizzyingly old and horribly powerful, perhaps the origin of chaos itself. She prided herself on a steely resolve, but this...this terrified her. The more time she spent delving into the deep history, the more the return of such chaos seemed like not just possible, but inevitable. Imminent, even. The days this thought dug its claws into her conscience were the days she tucked herself into dark corners of the reserve, wanting so much to leave but unable to bring herself to give up such safety. Eventually they’d come to her, and speak in a quiet voice, and patiently wait until she was ready to pick up and fight again. She always walked away from these days with less bruises than usual.

The final time she ran away, they did not follow. Not right away. Something bigger than her own emotions was guiding her, finally, in the direction they always suspected she’d be pulled in. There would be time to catch up, to clarify, to evaluate her position and continue her training in the essentials; this new life will be work enough, they figured, as a steady thrum of uncertainty spread across the continent. She’d share in the beginning, the middle, and the end of this particular story, after all. She was the choice. They had to trust that she was the right one.

He smiles. He feels the eyes of the sun and the storm zeroing in on him from beyond the gate and he wants to wave cheekily back, like his sweet little protégée whenever she’s caught doing something naughty. Their vision of a perfect imprisonment is failing, and it’s all thanks to their own senses of self-importance. What kind of warden locks themselves behind bars, like the very prisoners they’re meant to keep? How amusingly foolish.

His brethren are on the move. He’s kept an eye on their leaders, their followers, their champions over the centuries, watching their plans weave together like prophetic tapestries. At last, the patterns are shining through brilliantly, and it’s nearly time for him to tighten the final threads, bringing the world he was so rudely denied to a crashing halt. The solstice will see his prison shattered. The day the sun has a front row seat in a cage of his own making. He feels a familiar stirring in his blood, and his smile widens. 

_“What a delightful surprise. You still walk the earth, my angel? For that loyalty, your Lord shall see you fly again.”_

He reaches out. The veils have thinned. He takes a moment to sense a point of weakness, and tears open the first hole.

Deaf to the ears of his project, faint in the heart of his enemy, and far too loud in the memory of his champion, the iron chains begin to rattle.

**Author's Note:**

> y e e t


End file.
